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SONG OF ITALY. 



ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 







i- BOSTON: 
TICKNOR AND FIELDS. 
1867. 



5S«^ 



T1^ ^ 



7 



University Press : Welch, Bigelow, & Co., 
Cambridge. 



a-dp(</ 



INSCRIBED, 



WITH ALL DEVOTION AND REVERENCE, 



JOSEPH MAZZINI. 



A SONG OF ITALY. 

T TPON a windy night of stars that fell 
^^ At the wind's spoken spell, 
Swept with sharp strokes of agonizing light 

From the clear gulf of night, 
Between the fixed and fallen glories one 

Against my vision shone, 
More fair and fearful and divine than they 

That measure night and day, 
And worthier worship ; and within mine eyes 

The formless folded skies 
Took shape and were unfolded like as flowers. 

And I beheld the hours 
As maidens, and the days as laboring men, 

And the soft nights again 



6 A SONG OF ITALY. 

As wearied women to their own souls wed, 

And ages as the dead. 
And over these living, and them that died, 

From one to the other side 
A lordHer light than comes of earth or air 

Made the world's future fair. 
A woman like to love in face, but not 

A thing of transient lot — 
And like to hope, but having hold on truth — 

And like to joy or youth, 
Save that upon the rock her feet were set — 

And like what men forget, 
Faith, innocence, high thought, laborious peace - 

And yet like none of these, 
Being not as these are mortal, but with eyes 

That sounded the deep skies 
And clove like wings or arrows their clear way 

Through night and dawn and day — 
So fair a presence over star and sun 

Stood, making these as one. 



A SONG OF ITALY. 7 

For in the shadow of her shape were all 

Darkened and held in thrall, 
So mightier rose she past them ; and I felt 

Whose form, whose likeness knelt 
With covered hair and face and clasped her knees ; 

And knew the first of these 
Was Freedom, and the second Italy. 

And what sad words said she 
For mine own grief I knew not, nor had heart 

Therewith to bear my part 
And set my songs to sorrow; nor to hear 

How tear by sacred tear 
Fell from her eyes as flowers or notes that fall 

In some slain feaster's hall 
Where in mid music and melodious breath 

Men singing have seen death. 
So fair, so lost, so sweet she knelt ; or so 

In our lost eyes below 
Seemed to us sorrowing ; and her speech being said, 

Fell, as one who falls dead. 



8 A SONG OF ITALY. 

And for a little she too wept, who stood 

Above the dust and blood 
And thrones and troubles of the world'; then spake, 

As who bids dead men wake. 

" Because the years were heavy on thy head ; 

Because dead things are dead ; 
Because thy chosen on hillside, city, and plain 

Are shed as drops of rain ; 
Because all earth was black, all heaven was blind, 

And we cast out of mind ; 
Because men wept, saying Freedom, knowing of thee, 

Child, that thou wast not free ; 
Because wherever blood was not shame was 

Where thy pure foot did pass \ 
Because on Promethean rocks distent 

Thee fouler eagles rent ; 
Because a serpent stains with slime and foam 

This that is not thy Rome ; 
Child of my womb, whose limbs were made in me, 

Have I forgotten thee? 



A SOJVG OF ITALY. 9 

In all thy dreams through all these years on wing, 

Hast thou dreamed such a thing? 
The mortal mother-bird outsoars her nest, 

The child outgrows the breast ; 
But suns as stars shall fall from heaven and cease, 

Ere we twain be as these ; 
Yea, utmost skies forget their utmost sun, 

Ere we twain be not one. 
My lesser jewels sewn on skirt and hem, 

I have no heed of them 
Obscured and flawed by sloth or craft or power ; 

But thou, that wast my flower, 
The blossom bound between my brows and worn 

In sight of even and morn 
From the last ember of the flameless west. 

To the dawn's baring breast — 
I were not Freedom if thou wert not free, 

Nor thou wert Italy. 
O mystic rose ingrained with blood, impearled. 

With tears of all the world ! 



lo A SONG OF ITALY. 

The torpor of their blind brute-ridden trance 

Kills England and chills France ; 
And Spain sobs hard through strangling blood ; and 
snows 

Hide the huge eastern woes. 
But thou, twin-born with morning, nursed of noon, 

And blessed of star and moon ! 
What shall avail to assail thee any more, 

Prom sacred shore to shore ? 
Have Time and Love not knelt down at thy feet, 

Thy sore, thy soiled, thy sweet, 
Fresh from the flints and mire of murderous ways 

And dust of travelling days ? 
Hath Time not kissed them. Love not washed them fair, 

And wiped with tears and hair ? 
Though God forget thee, I will not forget ; 

Though heaven and earth be set 
Against thee, O unconquerable child, 

Abused, abased, reviled. 
Lift thou not less from no funereal bed 

Thine undishonored head ; 



A SONG OF ITALY, 



Love thou not less, by lips of thine once prest, 

This my now barren breast ; 
Seek thou not less, being well assured thereof, 

O child, my latest love. 
For now the barren bosom shall bear fruit, 

Songs leap from lips long mute. 
And with my milk the mouths of nations fed 

Again be glad and red 
That were worn white with hunger and sorrow and 
thirst ; 

And thou, most fair and first. 
Thou whose warm hands and sweet live lips I feel 

Upon me for a seal. 
Thou whose least looks, whose smiles and little sighs, 

AVhose passionate pure eyes, 
Whose dear fair limbs that neither bonds could bruise 

Nor hate of men misuse. 
Whose flower-like breath and bosom, O my child, 

O mine and undefiled. 
Fill with such tears as burn like bitter wine 

These mother's eyes of mine, 



12 A SONG OF ITALY. 

Thrill with huge passions and primeval pains 
The fulness of my veins. 

sweetest head seen higher than any stands, 
I touch thee with mine hands, 

1 lay my lips upon thee, O thou most sweet. 
To lift thee on thy feet 

And with the fire of mine to fill thine eyes \ 
I say unto thee. Arise." 

She ceased, and heaven was full of flame and sound. 

And earth's old limbs unbound 
Shone and waxed warm with fiery dew and seed 

Shed through her at this her need : 
And highest in heaven, a mother and full of grace, 

With no more covered face, 
With no more lifted hands and bended knees, 

Rose, as from sacred seas 
Love, when old time was full of plenteous springs, 

That fairest-born of things. 
The land that holds the rest in tender thrall 

For love's sake in them all, * 



A SONG OF ITALY, 13 

That binds with words and holds with eyes and hands 

All hearts in all men's lands. 
So died the dream whence rose the live desire 

That here takes form and fire, 
A spirit from the splendid grave of sleep 

Risen, that ye should not weep, 
Should not weep more nor ever, O ye that hear 

And ever have held her dear. 
Seeing now indeed she weeps not who wept sore, 

And sleeps not any more. 
Hearken ye towards her, O people, exalt your eyes ; 

Is this a thing that dies? 

Italia ! by the passion of the pain 

That bent and rent thy chain ; 
Italia ! by the breaking of the bands, 

The shaking of the lands j 
Beloved, O men's mother, O men's queen, 

Arise, appear, be seen ! 
Arise, array thyself in manifold 

Queen's raiment of wrought gold ; 



14 A SONG OF ITALY. 

With girdles of green freedom, and with red 

Roses, and white snow shed 
Above the flush and frondage of the hills 

That all thy deep dawn fills 
And all thy clear night veils and warms with wings 

Spread till the morning sings; 
The rose of resurrection, and the bright 

Breast lavish of the light, 
The lady lily like the snowy sky 

Ere the stars wholly die; 
As red as blood, and whiter than a wave, 

Flowers grown as from thy grave. 
From the green fruitful grass in Maytime hot, 

Thy grave, where thou art not. 
Gather the grass and weave, in sacred sign 

Of the ancient earth divine, 
The holy heart of things, the seed of birth. 

The mystical warm earth. 
O thou her flower of flowers, with treble braid 

Be thy sweet; head arrayed, 



A SONG OF ITALY. 15 

In witness of her mighty motherhood 

Who bore thee and found thee good, 
Her fairest-born of children, on whose head 

Her green and white and red 
Are hope and light and life, inviolate 

Of any latter fate. 
Fly, O our flag, through deep Italian air. 

Above the flags that were. 
The dust}^ shreds of shameful battle-flags 

Trampled and rent in rags. 
As withering woods in autumn's bitterest breath 

Yellow, and black as death ; 
Black as crushed worms that sicken in the sense. 

And yellow as pestilence. 
Fly, green as summer and red as dawn and white 

As the live heart of light, 
The blind bright womb of color unborn, that brings 

Forth all fair forms of things. 
As freedom all fair forms of nations dyed 

In divers-colored pride. 



i6 A SONG OF ITALY, 

Fly fleet as wind on every wind that blows 

Between her seas and snows, 
From Alpine white, from Tuscan green, and where 

Vesuvius reddens air. 
Fly! and let all men see it, and all kings wail. 

And priests wax faint and pale. 
And the cold hordes that moan in misty places 

And the funereal races 
And the sick serfs of lands that wait and wane 

See thee and hate thee in vain. 
In the clear laughter of all winds and waves. 

In the blown grass of graves. 
In the long sound of fluctuant boughs of trees, 

In the broad breath of seas. 
Bid the sound of thy flying folds be heard j 

And as a spoken word 
Full of that fair god and that merciless 

Who rends the Pythoness, 
So be the sound and so the fire that saith 

She feels her ancient breath 
And the old blood move in her immortal veins. 



A SONG OF ITALY, 17 

Strange travail and strong pains, 
Our mother, hast thou borne these many years, 

While thy pure blood and tears 
Mixed with the Tyrrhene and the Adrian, sea ; 

Light things were said of thee, 
As of one buried deep among; the dead ; 

Yea, she hath been, they said, 
She was when time was younger, and is not; 

The very cerecloths rot 
That flutter in the dusty wind: of death. 

Not moving with her breath ; 
Far seasons and forgotten years enfold 

Her dead corpse old and cold 
With many windy winters and pale springs ; 

She is none of this world's things. 
Though her dead head like a live garland wear 

The golden-growing hair 
That flows over her breast down to her feet, 

Dead queens, whose life was sweet 
2 



l8 A SONG OF ITALY. 

In sight of all men living, have been found 

So cold, so clad, so crowned. 
With all things faded and with one thing fair, 

Their old immortal hair, 
When flesh and bone turned dust at touch of day : 

And she is dead as they. 
So men said sadly, mocking ; so the slave, 

Whose life was his soul's grave ; 
So, pale or red with change of fast and feast, 

The sanguine-sand^ed priest; 
So the Austrian, when his fortune came to flood, 

And the warm wave was blood ; 
With wings that widened and with beak that smote, 

So shrieked through either throat 
From the hot horror of its northern nest 

That double-headed pest; 
So, triple-crowned with fear and fraud and shame, 

He of whom treason came. 
The herdsman of the Gadarean swine ; 

So all his ravening kine. 



A SONG OF ITALY, 19 

Made fat with poisonous pasture; so not we, 

Mother, beholding thee. 
Make answer, O the crown of all our slain, 

Ye that were one, being twain, 
Twain brethren, twin-born to the second birth, 

Chosen out of all our earth 
To be the prophesying stars that say 

How hard is night on day. 
Stars in serene and sudden heaven re-risen 

Before the sun break prison 
And ere the moon be wasted; fair first flowers 

In that red wreath of ours. 
Woven with the lives of all whose lives were shed 

To crown their mother's head 
With leaves of civic cypress and thick yew, 

Till the olive bind it too, 
Olive and laurel and all loftier leaves 

That victory wears or weaves 
At her fair feet for her beloved brow; 

Hear, for she too hears now, 



20 A SONG OF ITALY. 

O Pisacane, from Calabrian sands j 

O all heroic hands 
Close on the sword-hilt, hands of all her dead ; 

O many a holy head, 
Bowed for her sake even to her reddening dust ; 

O chosen, O pure and just, 
Who counted for a small thing life's estate. 

And died, and made it great ; 
Ye whose names mix with all her memories ; ye 

Who rather chose to see 
Death, than our more intolerable things ; 

Thou whose name withers kings, 
Agesilao ; thou too, O chiefliest thou. 

The slayer of splendid brow. 
Laid where the lying lips of fear deride 

The foiled tyrannicide, 
Foiled, fallen, slain, scorned, and happy ; being in fame, 

Felice, like thy name, 
Not like thy fortune j father of the fight. 

Having in hand our light. 



A SONG OF ITALY. 

Ah, happy! for that sudden-swerving hand 

Flung light on all thy land, 
Yea, lit blind France with compulsory ray. 

Driven down a righteous way; 
Ah, happiest ! for from thee the wars began, 

From thee the fresh springs ran ; 
From thee the lady land that queens the earth 

Gat as she gave new birth. 
O sweet mute mouths, O all fair dead of ours, 

Fair in her eyes as flowers. 
Fair without feature, vocal without voice, 

Strong without strength, rejoice ! 
Hear it with ears that hear not, and on eyes 

That see not let it rise. 
Rise as a sundawn \ be it as dew that drips 

On dumb and dusty lips ; 
Eyes have ye not, and see it ; neither ears. 

And there is none but hears. 
This is the same for whom ye bled and wept; 

She was not dead, but slept. 



?2 A- SONG OF ITALY. 

This is that very Italy which was 
And is and shall not pass. 

But thou, though all were not well done, O chief, 

Must thou take shame or grief? 
Because one man is not as thou or ten, 

Must thou take shame for men ?• 
Because the supreme sunrise is not yet, 

Is the young dew not wet ? 
Wilt thou not yet abide a little while. 

Soul without fear or guile, 
Mazzini, — O our prophet, O our priest, 

A little while at least? 
A little hour of doubt and of control. 

Sustain thy sacred soul; 
Withhold thine heart, our father, but an hour ; 

Is it not here, the flower. 
Is it not blown and fragrant from the root. 

And shall not be the fruit? 
Thy children, even thy people thou hast made, 

Thine, with thy words arrayed, 



A SONG OF ITALY. 23 

Clothed with thy thoughts and girt with thy desires, 

Yearn up toward thee as fires. 
Art thou not father, O father, of all these ? 

From thine own Genoese 
To where of nights the lower extreme lagune 

Feels its Venetian moon, 
Nor suckling's mouth nor mother's breast set free, 

But hath that grace through thee. 
The milk of life on death's unnatural brink 

Thou gavest them to drink, 
The natural milk of freedom ; and again 

They drank, and they were men. 
The wine and honey of freedom and of faith 

They drank, and cast oif death. 
Bear with them now ; thou art holier : yet endure, 

Till they as thou be pure. 
Their swords at least that stdinmed half Austria's tide 

Bade all its bulk divide ; 
Else, though fate bade them for a breath's space fall, 

She had not fallen at all. 



24 A SONG OF ITALY. 

Not by their hands they made time's promise true; 

Not by their hands, but through. 
Nor on Custozza ran their blood to waste,' 

Nor fell their fame defaced 
Whom stormiest Adria with tumultuous tides 

Whirls undersea and hides. 
Not his, who from the sudden-setding deck 

Looked over death and wreck 
To where the mother's bosom shone, who smiled 

As he, so dying, her child; 
For he smiled surely, dying, to mix his death 

With her memorial breath ; 
Smiled, being most sure of her, that in no wise, 

Die whose will, she dies : 
And she smiled surely, fair and far above. 

Wept not, but smiled for love. 
Thou too, O splendor l>f the sudden sword 

That drove the crews abhorred 
From Naples and the siren-footed strand, 

Flash from thy master's hand, 



A SONG OF ITALY. 25 

Shine from the middle summer of the seas 

To the old bolides, 
Outshine their fiery fumes of burning night, 

Sword, with thy midday light ; 
Flame as a beacon from the Tyrrhene foam 

To the rent heart of Rome, 
From the island of her lover and thy lord, 

Her saviour and her sword. 
In the fierce year of failure and of fame, 

Art thou not yet the same 
That wert as lightning swifter than all wings 

In the blind face of kings ? 
When priests took counsel to devise despair. 

And princes to forswear, 
She clasped thee, O her sword and flag-bearer 

And staff and shield to her, 
O Garibaldi ; need was hers and grief. 

Of thee and of the chief, 
And of another girt in arms to stand 

As good of hope and hand, 



26 A SONG OF ITALY. 

As high of soul and happy, albeit indeed 

The heart should burn and bleed, 
So but the spirit shake not nor the breast 

Swerve, but abide its ffest. 
As theirs did and as thine, though ruin clomb 

The highest wall of Rome, 
Though treason stained and spilt her lustral water, 

And slaves led slaves to slaughter. 
And priests, praying and slaying, watched them pass 

From a strange France, alas ! 
That was not freedom ; yet when these were past, 

Thy sword and thou stood fast. 
Till new men seeing thee where Sicilian waves 

Hear now no sound of slaves. 
And where thy sacred blood is fragrant still 

Upon the Bitter Hill, 
Seeing by that blood one country saved and stained. 

Less loved thee crowned than chained. 
And less now only than the chief: for he, 

Father of Italy, 



A SONG OF ITALY. 27 

Upbore in holy hands the babe new-born 

Through loss and sorrow and scorn, 
Of no man led, of many men reviled; 

Till lo, the new-born child 
Gone from between his hands, and in its place, 

Lo, the fair mother's face. 
Blessed is he of all men, being in one 

As father to her and son. 
Blessed of all men living, that he found 

Her weak limbs bared and bound, 
And in his arms and in his bosom bore, 

And as a garment wore 
Her weight of want, and as a royal dress 

Put on her weariness. 
As in faith's hoariest histories men read. 

The strong man bore at need 
Through roaring rapids when all heaven was wild 

The likeness of a child 
That still waxed greater and heavier as he trod. 

And altered, and was God. 



18 A SONG OF ITALY. 

Praise him, O winds that move the molten air, 

O light of days that were, 
And light of days that shall be ; land and sea, 

And heaven and Italy : 
Praise him, O storm and summer, shore and wave, 

O skies and every grave ; 
O weeping hopes, O memories beyond tears, 

O many and murmuring years, 
O sounds far off in time and visions far, 

O sorrow with thy star. 
And joy with all thy beacons ; ye that mourn, 

And ye whose light is born; 
O fallen faces, and O souls arisen, 

Praise him from tomb and prison. 
Praise him from heaven and sunlight j and ye floods, 

And windy waves of woods j 
Ye valleys and wild vineyards, ye lit lakes 

And happier hillside brakes, 
Untrampled by the accursed feet that trod 

Fields golden from their god. 



A SONG OF ITALY, 29 

Fields of their god forsaken, whereof none 

Sees his face in the sun, 
Hears his voice from the floweriest wildernesses ; 

And, barren of his tresses, 
Ye bays unplucked and laurels unenj;wined, 

That no men break or bind. 
And myrtles long forgetful of the sword, 

And olives unadored, 
Wisdom and love, white hands that save and slay, 

Praise him ; and ye as they. 
Praise him, O gracious might of dews and rains 

That feed the purple plains, 
O sacred sunbeams bright as bare steel drawn, 

O cloud and fire and dawn ; 
Red hills of flame, white Alps, green Apennines, 

Banners of blowing pines. 
Standards of stormy snows, flags of light leaves. 

Three wherewith Freedom weaves 
One ensign that once woven and once unfurled 

Makes day of all a world, 



30 A SONG OF ITALY. 

Makes blind their eyes who knew not, and outbraves 

The waste of iron waves ; 
Ye fields of yellow fulness, ye fresh fountains, 

And mists of many mountains; 
Ye moons and seasons, and ye days and nights; 

Ye starry-headed heights, 
And gorges melting sunward from the snow. 

And all strong streams that flow 
Tender as tears, and fair as faith, and pure 

As hearts made sad and sure 
At once by many sufferings and one love ; 

O mystic deathless dove 
Held to the heart of earth and in her hands 

Cherished, O lily of lands. 
White rose of time, dear dream of praises past — 

For such as these thou wast. 
That art as eagles setting to the sun. 

As fawns that leap and run, 
As a sword carven with keen floral gold. 

Sword for an armed god's hold, 



A SOA'G OF ITALY, 31 

Flower for a crowned god's forehead — O our land, 

Reach forth thine holiest hand, 
O mother of many sons and memories, 

Stretch out thine hand to his 
That raised and gave thee life to run and leap 

When thou wast full of sleep, 
That touched and stung thee with young blood and 
breath 

When thou wast hard on death. 
Praise him, O all her cities and her crowns, 

Her towers and thrones of towns ; 
O noblest Brescia, scarred from foot to head 

And breast-deep in the dead. 
Praise him from all the glories of thy graves 

That yellow Mela laves 
With gentle and golden water, whose fair flood 

Ran wider with thy blood \ 
Praise him, O born of that heroic breast, 

O nursed thereat and blest, 
Verona, fairer than thy mother fair. 

But not more brave to bear ; 



32 A SOIVG OF ITALY. 

Praise him, O Milan, whose imperial tread 

Bruised once the German head; 
Whose might, by northern swords left desolate, 

Set foot on fear and fate ] 
Praise him, O long mute mouth of melodies, 

Mantua, with louder keys. 
With mightier chords of music even than rolled 

From the large harps of old, 
When thy sweet singer of golden throat and tongue 

Praising his tyrant sung ; 
Though now thou sing not as of other days. 

Learn late a better praise. 
Not with the sick sweet lips of slaves that sing, 

Praise thou no priest or king, 
No brow-bound laurel of discolored leaf. 

But him, the crownless chief. 
Praise him, O star of sun-forgotten times. 

Among their creeds and crimes 
That wast a fire of witness in the night, 

Padua, the wise men's light ; 



A SONG OF ITALY. 33 

Praise him, O sacred Venice, and the sea 

That now exults through thee. 
Full of the mighty morning and the sun, 

Free of things dead and done ; 
Praise him from all the years of thy great grief. 

That shook thee like a leaf 
With winds and snows of torment, rain that fell 

Red as the rains of hell, 
Storms of black thunder and of yellow flame. 

And all ill things but shame ; 
Praise him with all thy holy heart and strength ; 

Through thy walls' breadth and length 
Praise him with all thy people, that their voice 

Bid the strong soul rejoice. 
The fair clear supreme spirit beyond stain, 

Pure as the depth of pain, 
High as the head of suffering, and secure 

As all things that endure. 
More than thy blind lord of an hundred years. 

Whose name our memory hears, 
3 



34 A SONG OF ITALY. 

Home-bound from harbors of the Byzantine 

Made tributary of thine, 
Praise him who gave no gifts from oversea, 

But gave thyself to thee. 
O mother Genoa, through all years that run, 

More than that other son. 
Who first beyond the seals of sunset prest 

Even to the unfooted west. 
Whose back-blown flag scared from their sheltering seas 

The unknown Atlantides, 
And as flame climbs through cloud and vapor clomb 

Through streams of storm and foam. 
Till half in sight they saw land heave and swim — 

More than this man praise him. 
One found a world new-born from virgin sea; 

And one found Italy, 
O heavenliest Florence, from the mouths of flowers 

Fed by melodious hours, 
From each sweet mouth that kisses light and air, 

Thou whom thy fate made fair 



A SONG OF ITALY. 35 

As a bound vine or any flowering tree, 

Praise him who made thee free. 
For no grape-gatherers trampUng out the wine 

Tread thee, the fairest vine; 
For no man binds thee, no man bruises, none 

Does with thee as these have done. 
From where spring hears loud through her long-ht vales 

Triumphant nightingales, 
In many a fold of fiery foliage hidden* 

Withheld as things forbidden, 
But clamorous with innumerable delight 

In May's red, green, and white, 
In the far-floated standard of the springs 

That bids men also sing, 
Our flower of flags, our witness that we are free, 

Our lamp for land and sea ; 
From where Majano feels through corn and vine 

Spring move and melt as wine. 
And Fiesole's embracing arms enclose 

The immeasurable rose ; 



36 A SONG OF ITALY. 

From hillsides plumed with pine, and heights wind-worn 

That feel the refluent morn, 
Or where the moon's face warm and passionate 

Burns, and men's hearts grow great, 
And the swoln eyelids labor with sweet tears, 

And in their burning ears 
Sound throbs like flame, and in their eyes new light 

Kindles the trembling night; 
From faint illumined fields and starry valleys 

Wherefrom the hill-wind sallies, 
From Vallombrosa, from Valdarno, raise 

One Tuscan tune of praise. 
O lordly city of the field of death, 

Praise him with equal breath. 
From sleeping streets and gardens, and the stream 

That threads them as a dream 
Threads without light the untravelled ways of sleep 

With eyes that smile or weep ; 
From the sweet sombre beauty of wave and wall 

That fades and does not fall : 



A SONG OF ITALY. yj 

From colored domes and cloisters fair with fame, 

Praise thou and thine his name. 
Thou too, O little laurelled town of towers, 

Clothed with the flame of flowers, 
From windy ramparts girdled with young gold, 

From thy sweet hillside fold 
Of wallflowers and the acacia's belted bloom 

And every blowing plume, 
Halls that saw Dante speaking, chapels fair 

As the outer hills and air. 
Praise him who feeds the fire that Dante fed. 

Our highest heroic head. 
Whose eyes behold through floated cloud and flame 

The maiden face of fame 
Like April in Valdelsa ; fair as flowers, 

And patient as the hours ; 
Sad with slow sense of time, and bright with faith 

That levels life and death ; 
The final fame, that with a foot sublime 

Treads down reluctant time; 



3(8 A SONG OF ITALY. 

The fame that waits and watches and is wise, 

A virgin with chaste eyes, 
A goddess who takes hands with great men's grief; 

Praise her, and him, our chief. 
Praise him, O Siena, and thou her deep green springs 

O Fonte Branda, sing : 
Shout from the red clefts of thy fiery crags, 

Shake out thy flying flags 
In the long wind that streams from hill to hill; 

Bid thy full music fill 
The desolate red waste of sunset air 

And fields the old time saw fair. 
But now the hours ring void through ruined lands, 

Wild work of mortal hands ; 
Yet through thy dead Maremma let his name 

Take flight and pass in flame, 
And the red ruin of disastrous hours 

Shall quicken into flowers. 
Praise him, O fiery child of sun and sea, 

Naples, who bade thee be; 



A SONG OF ITALY. 39 

For till he sent the swords that scourge and save, 

Thou wast not, but thy grave. 
But more than all these praise him and give thanks, 

Thou, from thy Tiber's banks, 
From all thine hills and from thy supreme dome, 

Praise him, O risen Rome. 
Let all thy children cities at thy knee 

Lift up their voice with thee, 
Saying, " For thy love's sake and our perished grief 

We laud thee, O our chief;. 
Saying, " For thine hand and help when hope was dead 

We thank thee, O our head " \ 
Sa)ring, " For thy voice and face within our sight 

We bless thee^ O our light ; 
For waters cleansing us from days defiled 

We praise thee, O our child." 

So with an hundred cities' mouths in one 

Praising thy supreme son. 
Son of thy sorrow, O mother, O maid and mother, 

Our queen, who serve none other, 



40 A SONG OF ITALY. 

Our lady of pity and mercy, and full of grace, 

Turn otherwhere thy face, 
Turn for a little and look what things are these 

Now fallen before thy knees ; 
Turn upon them thine eyes who hated thee, 

Behold what things they be, 
Italia : these are stubble that were steel, 

Dust, or a turning wheel ; 
As leaves, as snow, as sand, that were so strong; 

And howl, for all their song, 
And wail, for all their wisdom; they that were 

So great, they are all stript bare. 
They are all made empty of beauty, and all abhorred ; 

They are shivered, and their sword ; 
They are slain who slew, they are heartless who were 
wise ; 

Yea, turn on these thine eyes, 
O thou, soliciting with soul sublime 

The obscure soul of time, 
Thou, with the wounds thy holy body bears 

From broken swords of theirs. 



A SONG OF ITALY. 41 

Thou, with the sweet swoln eyelids that have bled 

Tears for thy thousands dead, 
And upon these, whose swords drank up like dew 

The sons of thine they slew. 
These, whose each gun blasted with murdering mouth 

Live flowers of thy fair south. 
These, whose least evil told in alien ears 

Turned men's whole blood to tears, 
These, whose least sin remembered for pure shame 

Turned all those tears to flame, 
Even upon these, when breaks the extreme blow 

And all the world cries woe, 
When heaven reluctant rains long-suflering fire 

On these and their desire. 
When his wind shakes them and his waters whelm 

Who rent thy robe and realm, 
When they that poured thy dear blood forth as wine 

Pour forth their own for thine, 
On these, on these have mercy : not in hate, 

But full of sacred fate. 



42 ^ A SONG OF ITALY, 

Strong from the shrine and splendid from the god, 

Smite, with no second rod. 
Because they spared not, do thou rather spare : 

Be not one thing they were. 
Let not one tongue of theirs who hate thee say 

That thou wast even as they. 
Because their hands were bloody, be thine white ; 

Show light where they shed night : 
Because they are foul, be thou the rather pure; 

Because they are feeble, endure ; 
Because they had no pity, have thou pity. 

« 

And thou, O supreme city, 
O priestless Rome that shalt be, take in trust 

Their names, their deeds, their dust, 
Who held life less than thou wert ; be the least 

To thee indeed a priest, 
Priest and burnt-offering and blood-sacrifice 

Given without prayer or price, 
A holier immolation than men wist, 

A costlier eucharist, 



A SONG OF ITALY. 43^ 

A sacrament more saving ; bend thine head 

Above these many dead 
Once, and salute with thine eternal eyes 

Their lowest head that lies. 
Speak from thy lips of immemorial speech 

If but one word for each. 
Kiss but one kiss on each thy dead sons' mouth 

Fallen dumb or north or south. 
And laying but once thine hand on brow and breast, 

Bless them, through whom thou art blest. 
And saying in ears of these thy dead, " Well done," 

Shall they not hear "O son"? 
And bowing thy face to theirs made pale for thee, 

Shall the shut eyes not see? 
Yea, through the hollow-hearted world of death, 

As light, as blood, as breath. 
Shall there not flash and flow the fiery sense. 

The pulse of prescience ? 
Shall not these know as in times overpast 

Thee loftiest to the last? 



44 A SONG OF ITALY. 

For times and wars shall change, kingdoms and creeds, 

And dreams of men, and deeds ; 
Earth shall grow gray with all her golden things, 

Pale peoples and hoar kings; 
But though her thrones and towers of nations fall, 

Death has no part in all ; 
In the air, nor in the imperishable sea, 

Nor heaven, nor truth, nor thee. 
Yea, let all sceptre-stricken nations lie. 

But live thou though they die ; 
Let their flags fade as flowers that storm can mar, 

But thine be like a star ; 
Let England's, if it float not for men free. 

Fall, and forget the sea; 
Let France's, if it shadow a hateful head, 

Drop as a leaf drops dead; 
Thine let what storm soever smite the rest 

Smite as it seems him best : 
Thine let the wind that can, by sea or land, 

Wrest from thy banner-hand. 



A SONG OF ITALY. 45 

Die they in whom dies freedom, die and cease, 

Though the world weep for these ; 
Live thou and love and lift when these lie dead 

The green and white and red. 

O our Republic that shalt bind in bands 

The kingdomless far lands 
And link the chainless ages ; thou that wast 

With England ere she past 
Among the faded nations, and shalt be 

Again, when sea to sea 
Calls through the wind and light of morning time, 

And throneless clime to clime 
Makes antiphonal answer; thou that art 

Where one man's perfect heart 
Burns, one man's brow is brightened for thy sake, 

Thine, strong to make or break; 
O fair Republic hallowing with stretched hands 

The limitless free lands. 
When all men's heads for love, not fear, bow down 

To thy sole royal crown, 



46 A SONG OF ITALY. 

As thou to freedom ; when man's life smells sweetj 

And at thy bright swift feet 
A bloodless and a bondless world is laid ; 

Then, when thy men are made, 
Let these indeed as we in dreams behold 

One chosen of all thy fold, 
One of all fair things fairest, one exalt 

Above all fear or fault, 
One unforgetful of unhappier men 

And us who loved her then ^ 
With eyes that outlook suns and dream on graves ; 

With voice like quiring waves ; 
With heart the holier for their memories' sake 

Who slept that she might wake ; 
With breast the sweeter for that sweet blood lost, 

And all the milkless cost ; 
Lady of earth, whose large equality 

Bends but to her and thee ; 
Equal with heaven, and infinite of years, 

And splendid from quenched tears ; 



A SONG OF ITALY. 47 

Strong with old strength of great things fallen and fled, 

Diviner for her dead ; 
Chaste of all stains and perfect from all scars, 

Above all storms and stars, 
All winds that blow through time, all waves that foam, 

Our Capitolian Rome. 



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